Favorite Season
by Doctor Java
Summary: Cara signs up for a dating website. Cara x Kahlan
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own no bit or part of _Legend of the Seeker_. This is just my attempt at some non-commercial derivative fanfiction.

**Author's Note:** Modern AU. Rated for cursing and sexual situations. Please enjoy.

**Favorite Season**

"I think we need to talk about last night."

"Nothing happened."

"Cara."

"Nothing. Happened."

"Ignoring it won't make it go away."

"I was drunk, it didn't mean anything. End of discussion."

"We both know that's not true."

"Denna."

"Cara."

Silence descends and festers. Denna spends it glaring at her, while Cara uses it to glance around the bar, looking at nothing in particular, but doing so with enviable intensity. She hopes if she is silent long enough, Denna will get bored and move on to other things. It's not outside the realm of possibility, Denna once got too impatient to wait for toasting poptarts. But tonight she seems uncharacteristically able to focus on someone other than herself for more than five minutes. It does not bode well.

"Leave it be," Cara says, conceding defeat, and hates that it sounds like a request. Like she's on the verge of begging.

"I'm just saying I think you need a girlfriend is all."

"I have more girlfriends than any person could want."

"That's the problem. You need one girlfriend."

Cara makes a sound of disgust, then drains the rest of her Peroni. If Denna had an ounce of human decency, she would consign last night the deepest, darkest pit of her memory. But then, Denna rarely forgets anything that shows Cara in a less than flattering light. And the previous evening had been a special kind of ugly.

It had started fine, like any number of the Friday nights she's spent with Denna. Drinks and darts followed by scanning the local fare from the comfort of a booth, a pitcher of beer slowly emptying between them. Cara hadn't seen anyone of interest, and was about to call it a night, when one of her exes wandered past their table. Against her wishes – ones she tried to communicate via a dark scowl, narrowed eyes, and a kick to the shins – Denna offered to share their booth and beer with Dahlia and a lover so new she still shined. Inexplicably, the couple agreed, and that was when the night took its dark turn.

What followed was a display so disgusting, Cara feels nauseated by the mere remembrance of it. Punctuating the story of how the new couple met, how they'd wanted each other for years, were lingering kisses, stupidly large smiles, and affectionate caresses that more often than not escalated to full on gropes. The two all but fucked in the booth. Except they probably would have called it making love.

Fifteen minutes in, Cara genuinely wondered if it was possible to go into sugar shock just from being in the vicinity of such treacle coated love. She even vowed never to take part in such eye-rolling sentimentality after a bout of particularly high-pitched giggles devolved into murmured professions of love everlasting.

But at the forty-five minute mark, with Miller Lite replacing the blood in her veins, Cara's perspective became distorted, corrupt. What had filled her with disdain when viewed through the rational eyes of a sober person, became almost...appealing when filtered through two pitchers. Like something she wanted for herself one day.

Not that she'd felt any urge to get back with Dahlia. That ship had sailed – and been consigned to the bottom of Lake Michigan by a barrage of cannon fire – years ago. But seeing her with her girlfriend, witnessing first hand the closeness they shared and the contentment they brought each other, filled Cara with an uncomfortable envy.

And things only got worse from there. By the time she and Denna rode home in the back of a cab, all she could talk about was growing old, alone and lonesome. Or growing old with Denna, if she were really unlucky.

She has no idea what she was thinking, much less where the desire for committed companionship came from. As far as she's concerned, she is living the life, happier than a clam, and of no mind to ruin a good thing. Alcohol fueled lamentations be damned.

"You have no idea what I need."

"Actually, I do. Because you spent three hours last night whining about how lonely you are. Three hours. You stared at Dahlia like some sad sack loser, and your depression was so strong it poisoned my beer and killed my buzz. My week was shit, Cara. Pure shit. I needed that buzz."

Cara can't really defend herself on that point, so she just crosses her arms over her chest. "We're not talking about this anymore. I'm done," she adds harshly, when Denna tries to protest.

Denna actually huffs, then falls back against her seat. Her scowl, perfected over a lifetime, is fierce, but Cara's not going to let the other woman's ire get to her. Her whole life would be blighted if she did that. Denna has issues with being denied, taking it as both insult and challenge, and it's the reason Cara broke up with her in the first place. After a whole nine days of carnal bliss. Cara got tired of every conversation turning into a debate, and Denna got tired of her pretending to go to the bathroom every five minutes just to get out of the room. The only reason they lasted as long as they did is because very little of the first eight days required them to speak in complete sentences.

"Fine. Be bitter and lonely. That just means more women for me when your depression drives them off."

"Please." As if Denna could ever get more women.

"I think we should make a bet."

The change of subject is as abrupt as it is welcome, and Cara nods without thinking twice. This is how they normally amuse themselves. Who can get more free drinks in an hour. Who can get the most kisses before bar time. The most invitations to go somewhere more private. The stakes are usually small: loser buys the next pitcher, or treats the victor to dinner at an upscale restaurant. Harmless fun. And since Cara wins more than she loses, usually well worth the effort.

Cara throws an arm along her seat, makes herself more comfortable. "What did you have in mind?"

"I want you to get the phone numbers of three women in fifteen minutes."

Cara smirks. It's a ridiculously easy task, completely beneath her talents, and she says so. "Make it ten minutes and it will almost be a challenge."

"Not so fast. I get to pick the women."

Cara can't imagine that will make much of a difference, so she shrugs. "Fine, I still agree. What are the stakes?"

"If I win," Denna's smile can only be described as gleeful, "you have to join a dating website."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I win, you join a dating website and go on a minimum of ten dates. I don't care if it's with the same woman or ten different women, but I get final say over any woman you choose." Denna takes a deep breath, says the next bit with obvious relish. "And since I want this to be about your emotional fulfillment, not sex, there will be no sleeping with any of these women. No sniffing around here looking for new girls or going to any of your old standbys, either. You'll be celibate for the duration." She pauses, a grin distorting her lips, and let's her proposal sink in. Lets it marinate a little. "Still agree?"

Cara rolls her eyes. So much for small stakes. If she'd taken a second to think about what Denna might require of her, she probably would have come up with this exact scenario and known to steer clear. Now she's already agreed twice and there's no way to back out with any grace. Denna would never let her hear the end of it.

"I am not going on ten dates with the same woman and not sleeping with her."

"Fine," Denna agrees so quickly Cara is sure she never had any intention of making Cara be celibate for the length of the bet. She wonders what else Denna over-reached on. "But you have to follow the three date rule. And, you can only go on one date a day."

"You have a lot of rules."

"That's because I know all your tricks."

"You wish. So, what do I get if I win?"

"What do you want?"

"Not you," she says, just because she can. She lets her eyes scan the bar, searching for suitable inspiration, something that will make Denna squirm. She finds it when her eyes land on Tiffany Dawson.

Tiffany is Denna's latest conquest. A mousy, glasses-wearing librarian type, she is practically Denna's ideal woman, whose tastes have always run toward the innocent, shy types. She claims she likes to make the quiet ones scream, and takes a disproportionate amount of pride in doing so. Cara has never seen the appeal, preferring to get as good as she gives from women who have never blushed a day in their lives.

"I win, you can't sleep with Tiffany for a month."

Denna visibly stiffens and Cara enjoys a surge of satisfaction. It's almost too easy to get under Denna's skin.

"Two weeks," she counters.

"Agreed," Cara says, though her confidence takes a small hit at how quickly Denna gives up the allegedly delectable Tiffany. "Now, which women are about to make my acquaintance?"

"Why don't you start with Jessica over there." Denna points to a slim woman who looks a few years older than Cara. She's standing alone at the bar, gazing hopefully at every woman who approaches, glancing down dejectedly when they pass without a word. Cara's seen her a few times, but they've never spoken. She looks desperate for any kind of attention, and Cara can't imagine an easier first mark.

"I hope this gets more challenging or poor Tiffany is going to think you're not interested anymore."

"Just come back when you get her number, and I'll give you the next girl. I won't start timing you until you introduce yourself."

"Fair enough."

Cara exits the booth and starts toward her target. The anticipation of victory adds a potent confidence to the sway of her hips, and halfway to her destination she's already managed to draw Jessica's eye. When their gazes meet Cara smiles slow, and she's delighted when Jessica straightens, visibly excited by her approach. This will be child's play.

Less than ten feet away, she's struck by inspiration. Jessica' glass is nearly empty and Cara veers off, approaching the bar a few chairs down so she can order Jessica a refresher. Whatever was in her glass looks fruity, so Cara takes a chance on a passion fruit mojito. She doesn't take her eyes off Jessica for a second, not even when she orders, and by the time Cara has the drink in her hand, Jessica is practically vibrating with anticipation. And Cara hasn't said a word or wasted a second of her time limit. Denna will regret that lenience. Jessica's phone number will be hers in three minutes.

"Hi," she says, leaning against the bar beside Jessica, offering her the drink. "I'm Cara."

* * *

Cara falls into the booth, dazed.

"You cheated," she says, annoyed with herself for sounding like a poor loser but needing to protest.

Denna smiles. She takes a bite of her taco pizza and chews gleefully, the self-satisfaction clinging to her an especially potent brand of nauseating. "You would have been disqualified anyway," she says, when she finally deigns to respond to Cara's accusation.

"On what grounds?"

"How about the grounds where you ripped the phone out of Jessica's hand and scrolled through it to find her number?"

"Three numbers in fifteen minutes, that was the only condition."

"It violated the spirit of the bet."

"You violated it first by sending me to get the number of a woman who never stops speaking, not even to take a breath. I introduced myself and never got another word in."

"That happens when your reputation proceeds you. You get nervous babble."

Cara rounds on Denna, eyes wide in disbelief. "That wasn't nervous anything. A person has to be self-aware to be nervous."

"Well, she certainly seemed to enjoy the way you shut her up," Denna says, referring to how, at the height of her frustration, Cara simply kissed the other woman and fished the phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. "If only you'd done it five minutes earlier."

"I was stuck in a time warp, I had no idea how much time was passing."

"Too bad for you, yay for ten lucky women. Or maybe one really lucky woman." Denna smirks. "Words cannot describe how much I'm looking forward to this."

Cara is pretty sure she has a very good idea. "That's because you're a sadist."

Denna chuckles. "Probably, but I think you'll come around." When Cara just rolls her eyes, Denna says, "A positive attitude is half the battle, Cara. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"Is this going to open new doors for me?" Cara says, sarcastic, thinking back to a conversation they had months ago about Denna's participation in various chat rooms. Cara hadn't wanted too many specifics, had just been glad the group meetings got Denna out of the apartment one weekend a month, and again one full week every six months. She'd invited Cara along on her last trip to some resort in southern Florida, but Cara had taken a rain check. It's not that she disapproves, she's just never had any desire to tread ground Denna's already walked.

Denna looks to the ceiling, obviously searching for patience up amongst the discolored tiles. "Be that way. Now, if you'll excuse me," she says, getting to her feet and straightening the hem of her shirt and looking very pleased. "I'm going to go say hi to Tiffany. You should probably head out anyway, start working on your profile." She digs in her purse, then tosses Cara two twenties and a wink. "For the cab. See you tomorrow."

* * *

"How did this happen?"

Cara is referring, of course, to the profile she posted on _Lovin' Ladies_, a dating website of dubious quality. She created it last night, after leaving Denna at the bar, and the feat had not been accomplished easily. In fact, it had taken two more beers and a shot of Jagermeister to conjure up the proper motivation. The result was, unfortunately, just as disturbing as one might expect. Not least because she'd managed to make herself sound like some over-emotional sap, announcing to anyone with an internet connection that fall is her favorite season, she's always wanted to visit Australia, and she's looking for someone to hold hands with when she finally makes the trip.

She would not have believed herself capable of such sticky sweet sentiment if she hadn't seen it with her own sober eyes this morning. She'd begged Denna to let her revise it, but the other woman was immovable, spouting some garbage about revealing her true heart and blah, blah, blah. Cara went immediately to the kitchen and grabbed a beer.

"I think it looks good," Denna says, when she's finally done inspecting Cara's work, requesting she flesh out some bits, and editing a few errors. "Well, everything but this picture you used."

"What's wrong with it?" As far as Cara's concerned, the picture – one of her bending over a pool table, smirking up at the camera, poised to take a shot – is the one thing she got right. She lifts her head just enough to comfortably finish the bottle of Miller she's been nursing since seven o'clock, then sets on the carpet next to its brothers. Nine hours old, and this bet is already taking a terrible toll on her health. "I look good."

"Yes, but it doesn't send the right message."

"And what am I trying to send, Denna?"

"That you're looking for a serious relationship. Something that's going to last longer than the weekend."

As far as Cara remembers, no mention was made about the type of woman she is supposed to be attracting. Ten dates, no more than one a day, any number of women, and no sex until after the third date. Denna has veto power. That's already any obnoxious number of rules as far as Cara's concerned, and there's no way she's letting Denna alter the conditions to make this into some fruitless attempt to get her to date a woman seriously. As if she'd find one amongst Denna's approved lot, anyway. She can just imagine the type of women Denna has in mind for her: A fleet of school teachers and veterinarians and knitters. The painfully earnest kind of woman who will take one look at her and run screaming for the hills. Though, to be fair, she'll be running just as quickly in the other direction.

"I'm sorry. Should I have used the one of me feeding a baby deer beneath a tree? Or maybe the one where I'm baking chocolate chip cookies and wearing an apron with dancing cupcakes on it."

Cara regrets the words as soon as they are out of her mouth, terrified she's just inadvertently scheduled her own photo shoot. But, thankfully, Denna doesn't jump on the chance to make her life even more miserable.

"We're trying to find a woman who wants you for your personality, not your wrapping."

"The wrapping is part of the entire package. A very attractive part."

"Probably the only attractive part," Denna mumbles, just loud enough for Cara to hear. More loudly, she says, "I just think you should change it."

"I'll change my picture if you let me take out the bit about holding hands."

"Aren't you forgetting the part where you lost a bet?"

"I've never been more aware of anything in my life. But the punishment was going on ten dates, not posting pictures of me on the internet wearing sweater vests."

Which, Cara thinks, she might as well do since she's already been thrown so far out of her comfort zone as to make her surroundings unrecognizable. There is little doubt this whole thing is going to be an exercise in torture. How can it not be, when she has no practice, no patience, for meaningless chit chat, engaged in solely to find out if she "connects" with someone. She'd much rather go to the bar, meet a woman's eyes over the rim of her glass, and let things progress from there. No dealing with those awkward e-mails full of lists and shallow revelations. No being unpleasantly surprised when a woman looks nothing like the picture in her profile. And no worrying about whether there will be any chemistry when the date is finally arranged. None of that is a problem when the heat in a woman's gaze is what draws her in the first place.

"Fine." Denna sighs with feeling, giving in despite her better judgment. "I'll let you keep the picture. But don't be surprised if most of your offers for dates come from women who don't meet my criteria."

Cara is going to go on a date with a woman who works at a daycare, spends the weekend volunteering at an animal shelter, and only says "shit" when she's a little tipsy. She has no doubt.

"Noted."

"Alright," Denna gets to her feet, tosses Cara's laptop onto the bed beside her, displaying her usual disregard for other people's possessions. "I'm just going to take a quick shower and then we're going to find some candidates. Meet me on the couch in an hour."

Cara lifts a limp hand. "Sure thing."

"And you might want to look at your in-box, it looks like you've already got some messages."

"On it," Cara promises. She wouldn't want to leave the camp counselors hanging.

After Denna leaves, Cara spends another ten minutes not moving. There's a part of her that doesn't even want to look at the women who might be interested in her, thinks she should just tell Denna to make a list of five women and she'll go on two dates a piece with each of them. But the other part is screaming that she be more proactive, that she not let Denna make this as unbearable as it has the potential to be.

But that requires actually looking at the women on the site, reading the messages they've sent her. Cara isn't sure she's prepared to do that yet.

Eventually, morbid curiosity wins out, and Cara drags her laptop onto her stomach and opens the first message in her in-box. It takes only one glance for Cara to realize this site might not be the arctic wasteland she feared. Greta is a twenty-something who loves Harleys, driving country roads on her motorcycle, and participating in group activities. Nothing about her screams a woman who is plumbing the depths of desperation, banking on her last chance for love. The accompanying picture is rather suggestive.

A sly smile pulls at the corner of Cara's mouth.

**To be continued.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** For anyone interested, I have tweaked chapter 1. It gets the reader to the same place, so you won't miss anything important if you don't re-read it. It was one of the last chapters I wrote before posting, and I've just never been happy with the tone. So it's been worked over. Not saying it's fixed, but it is different.

Also, thank you to everyone who has reviewed!

* * *

They have been sharing the couch for more than an hour. Denna is on one side, Cara the other, their backs propped against the armrests. A blank notepad sits neglected between their feet.

"Oh, here's one," Denna says, and Cara thinks the enthusiasm in her voice sounds particularly false.

"Amaze me."

The last sixty minutes have been massively unproductive, ever since Denna informed her that Greta was not an acceptable sort of woman. Due, of course, to reasons of relationship sustainability. Denna thought Greta wasn't interested enough in something lasting, while Cara thought Greta's interest was just long enough. Veto privileges were asserted, and since then Cara has refused every one of Denna's suggestions. She plans to do so until the bendy receptionist is back on the table.

"Her name's Kahlan, she's twenty-eight -"

"No. No one over twenty-seven."

Denna's "Why not?" is conversational, but the way her right eye twitches is a clear sign of displeasure.

"Women are looking for a person to settle down with at that age. Things get too serious too quickly, and I want to enjoy this," Cara rolls her eyes, "date, not spend the night dodging commitment arrows."

Denna nods, but it looks like she's biting hard at the inside of her cheek. Both hands are definitely digging into the cushion beneath her. "Okay," she says, "first of all, you're twenty-nine."

"Irrelevant."

"Second," Denna glances back at the screen, "Kahlan is looking for friendship and maybe more. That doesn't sound like a woman who wants to exchange matching rings after the second date."

"I will never exchange matching rings."

"Kahlan is a teacher -"

"Definitely no teachers. That's strike two, she's out."

Denna is quiet just long enough to count silently to ten.

"What do you have against teachers?"

"What don't I have against teachers?" Cara ticks off her fingers. "They get summers off. We'll spend dates talking about problem children and over-involved parents and the budget -"

"She lives in Monticello," Denna says, her newest strategy clearly just to talk over Cara. "That's less than five miles away, which is closer than ninety-five percent of the other women on this site. So, she's within running distance, she's employed, physically attractive, and sounds mature." Denna smiles, one hand reaching optimistically for the notepad between them. "Sounds like a winner to me. Can I put her on the list?"

Denna really likes this one, she's almost salivating, and Cara's feeling petulant enough to tell her to hunt down the woman and go on a date with her herself if she's that interested. Her no doubt virginal charms will be completely wasted on Cara anyway. But before she can tell Denna, in no uncertain terms, where she can stick Kahlan, Denna is impatiently thrusting the laptop toward her.

"Will you just look at her picture. Please? This is getting ridiculous."

With the screen practically shoved against her face, Cara has no choice but to look, and it's just as she feared.

In her picture, the woman, Kahlan, is surrounded by an alarming number of young people, holding a paintbrush upright like a microphone, and wearing a _Habitat for Humanity_ t-shirt. She's pretty, beautiful even, but she looks so...wholesome. The kind of pretty one expects to walk straight off a mid-western farm: glowing cheeks and an open, fresh-faced smile that no doubt comes from drinking gallons of milk and eating direct-from-the-source eggs for breakfast. She even has freckles, and Cara can easily picture her mucking around a barn, wearing muddy jeans and a button-down flannel while milking cows or maybe shucking corn. She probably follows every sentence with "please" or "thank you" or "you're welcome."

On Cara's avoidance scale, she's an easy eight out of ten. The problem – or maybe it's not – is that Cara is not immediately put off by the images marching through her brain. Kahlan's considerable attractiveness is an obvious mitigating factor, and for the first time Cara feels a tug of interest in one of Denna's chosen. Faint though it is. Maybe if she gives this one a chance – which will not be entirely like punishment – Denna will loosen the reigns a bit on other, more appropriate, prospects.

"Fine." Denna yanks the laptop from Cara's hands before she can capitulate. "You win. I'll let you have Greta."

"What?"

"You give Kahlan a chance," Denna lifts her hands like she's washing them of Cara and her poor decision-making, "I'll lift the ban on Greta."

Cara is ashamed of the giddy thrill that shoots through her as Denna's inability to take no for an answer strikes again. And though she could not have asked for a better result, Cara still makes a show of mulling it over. It wouldn't do to let Denna get too confident. She has a feeling there will be more battles in their future, and she needs to set a precedent.

"Really?" Denna says, after Cara just sits there, tapping a finger against her lips. "You're not going to jump at that?"

"Alright." Cara pushes the notepad toward Denna with her foot, expression as bored as she can make it. "Put them on the list."

* * *

Greta is out of town on an extended vacation when Cara replies to her message so, by default, Kahlan is her first date. Kahlan suggests they go to a coffee shop less than a mile from Cara's house, and she makes it clear from the outset that they are just "meeting up" and not actually going on a "date." Cara doesn't care what she calls it, as long as Denna agrees it's official as far as the bet goes, and she does so "meeting up" it is.

The coffee shop, unfortunately named _Roasted_, is a a predictable, but convenient, meeting place because Cara has every intention of spilling coffee on her lap after thirty minutes if the non-date is as dull as she expects. Even she can only stare at a pretty woman for so long, and she figures half an hour is long enough for her drink to cool to a tolerable level.

She doesn't make a special effort with her appearance, figuring a mid-morning meeting between two women with designs toward friendship, and a remote chance at more, merits a pair of jeans that are flattering, but not a second skin, and a plain polo shirt. Maybe a light jacket because the late spring mornings are still a little chilly. Any more effort suggests a desire to impress that outweighs the import of sharing a water-based beverage out of a paper cup. And Cara never tries too hard.

Her plan is to sneak out of the apartment before Denna wakes up. The woman rarely rises before noon on weekends and Cara thinks she's probably safe, but, like all things lately, that plan goes to hell. Denna flaps out of her bedroom at the sound of the front closet sliding shut, and descends on Cara like a bird of prey before she can get her shoes on. She fluffs Cara's hair, bringing wayward strands back into line, straightens her jacket, and reminds her to be nice to the poor middle school teacher and not answer every question with monosyllables while simultaneously picturing her naked. Like Cara doesn't know that not everyone likes to be ogled.

"And remember, no trying to sleep with her until after the third date."

As if a middle school teacher will get three dates with her, Cara thinks, and runs a hand through her hair, giving it the tousled look she prefers. She leaves the apartment without waiting for Denna's disapproval, but she hears it anyway when Denna sticks her head into the hall and tells her she won't have to worry about a second date if she meets Kahlan looking like that. Cara doesn't turn around, just raises one arm in the air and gives Denna the finger on her way into the stairwell.

She decides to walk to the coffee shop, thinking the morning air will do her good and give her cheeks an attractive glow. But the day is warmer than she anticipated, and a block from her apartment she can already feel the sweat dampening her forehead. She blots at it with the back of her hand, irritated. It doesn't particularly matter to her if this woman _likes_ her, but she'd like to at least be presentable. Visible underarm sweat spots do not belong at a first impression, no matter how short and meaningless it is.

She arrives at _Roasted_ ten minutes early and a little damp. She expects to find a nice corner table to huddle at while she waits for Kahlan, but Kahlan is already there, seated at a small round table in the center of the room. Cara recognizes her immediately, not because she looks exactly like her picture, though she does, but because her nervous fidgeting – a bouncing leg, knotted fingers, the way her eye snap toward the door the second it opens – is a dead giveaway. She looks at Cara for a beat before her gaze skitters away, not recognizing her, and obviously not wanting to be caught staring by every person who enters.

Cara takes her time walking over, giving Kahlan time to both register she is being approached and to adjust her timid posture. She does both after a slight widening of eyes, her back becoming almost unnaturally straight, both hands settling flat on the table. Like she's about to take a test, or be interrogated.

She is, Cara thinks as she draws closer, even more attractive than advertised. Far from being stick-thin, Kahlan has some lovely curves, and her hair, which Cara envied even before she saw it in person, hangs past her shoulders in the kind of glossy and controlled waves that belong in shampoo commercials. Cara can easily imagine running her hands through it, tangling it around her fingers. She stops the thought there.

"Hi. Cara, right?" Cara nods and Kahlan's smile is first-day-of-school welcoming. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," Cara says, and five seconds in this meeting is already predictably bland.

"Sorry I didn't wait." Kahlan lifts her drink, a large clear cup of something iced, smile turning abashed. "I was early and didn't want to sit without ordering something, so it was either this or go back outside and..."

"No problem," Cara says, interrupting Kahlan's nervous chatter. She jerks her chin toward the counter. "I'm going to order. Do you need a refresher or something to eat?"

"No, thank you. I've been nursing it."

"Alright." Cara hovers awkwardly for a moment, debating, before removing her jacket and draping it across the back of a chair. If she's a sweaty mess, she's a sweaty mess. "I'll be right back."

Her walk to the register is fortified by a silent chant about good attitudes and perspective. In the grand scheme of life's trials, this is the equivalent of a hang nail. In the time it takes to watch an episode of _Golden Girls_, she'll be saying goodbye to Kahlan and her first date, and hello to Greta and a handful of other women just like her. Or maybe just hello to Greta eight more times. Both thoughts are equally appealing, and their reality only the length of one syndicated sitcom away.

She returns to the table a few minutes later with a small coffee, black, and sits across from Kahlan. They share a smile, Cara's feels forced, then begin a second round of standard greetings. Those turn into comments about the weather, then the merits of Cara's walk, until finally they side-step into monologues about their respective plans for the weekend. Kahlan is very polite, hanging on each of Cara's words as if she were imparting life's most important secrets. And she keeps her eyes on Cara's the entire time, never even glancing at her cell phone, so that Cara can't dip her own gaze to enjoy Kahlan's tasteful cleavage. It is, perhaps, the most annoying aspect of this whole non-date.

Things dry up very quickly after the revelation of their weekend plans, much as Cara suspected. The rote turns to stilted, each question lobbed a little resignedly because their predictability is that embarrassing. To her credit, Kahlan continues to try very hard, answering each question with a burst of enthusiasm Cara supposes is meant to be catching. And it's so convincing, Cara thinks Kahlan might actually be enjoying herself in this arid landscape of a conversation.

Cara can't think how, not with exchanges the likes of: "So, do you read much?"

"Oh, yes," Kahlan says, earnest and proud. "I read a lot of Young Adult fiction, actually. You know, to keep up with what my kids are reading. There's a lot more variety than people expect, and the subject matter can be very mature. Sometimes I forget I'm reading books aimed at children. What about you? Do you read much?"

"A little. Mostly magazines."

"Oh," Kahlan says uncertainly, when it becomes obvious that is all Cara is going to say.

It's an uncomfortable place to be, but surprisingly not punishing enough to make Cara leave. The thing is, Kahlan is just so...nice. And despite their sputtering conversation – which is mostly her fault, she knows that – Cara finds she likes being in Kahlan's presence. Mostly because she seems to be working overtime to keep Cara in her seat and it's very flattering, but a little bit because Kahlan's smile is wide and pretty whenever there's the slightest hint they have something in common and Cara figures if this is the only time she gets to see it, she might as well look her fill.

"So, Cara, do you mind if I ask -" Kahlan hesitates, uncertainty growing. "What made you decide to contact me?"

Cara's normally a woman for straight speaking, but she can't imagine a similarly direct answer is a good idea. Somehow she can't see _because you advertised yourself on a dating website _or_ my roommate has a weird crush on you and wants to live it out vicariously through me _or_ I lost a bet_ going over very well.

"Well -"

"It's just, for me," Kahlan says, rushing to Cara's rescue when it's clear she's floundering, "I wanted to meet people – women, I guess – outside my normal social circle. Mine was starting to get a little suffocating."

"Ah." Cara nods knowingly. "All your ex-girlfriends dating each other?"

Kahlan laughs. "No, nothing like that. I've actually," she clears her throat and shrugs and Cara finds the sudden shyness endearing instead of annoying, "I've never actually had a serious girlfriend."

"Oh."

"I mean, I've been with women," Kahlan says, mistaking Cara's natural silence for something else, "just not in an official capacity. Well, to be completely honest, I've only ever had one serious, um, significant other. There was a lot of drama and back and forth, and there was angst for years -"

"And this wasn't another woman?"

"No." Kahlan smiles. "But it _was_ very heavy and I was so in love for so long that -" She winces. "This probably isn't the kind of thing I should be sharing right away, is it? Or at all."

Kahlan looks so stricken, it's impossible for Cara not to feel bad for her. Which is saying something. She's not in the habit of listening to other people's confessions, having never fostered the type of relationships that encourage them. Frankly, she finds the vast majority of other people's problems boring, their complaints mostly self-inflicted and self-perpetuating. And normally she can't find the exit fast enough when someone shows even the least sign of wanting to _confide_ in her, but Kahlan is just...nice and lovely and teaches children for God's sake. Cara doesn't have it in her to make her any more uncomfortable.

"It's okay. We're trying to be friends, right?" She feels a – very – small prick of guilt, since she came here with no intention of ever seeing Kahlan again. Planned to use her only as a gateway to the delectable Greta, whose e-mails have created some serious third date rule regret. "Friends talk about these things."

"Maybe just not right away."

Cara's shrug is noncommittal. "Maybe. I don't really know," she adds, an unintended revelation if there ever was one.

Kahlan looks at her curiously, but thankfully doesn't ask her to explain, saying instead, "I'm sorry." But her smile looks relieved instead of apologetic. "I'm just a little nervous."

Cara nods, not sure how to reply to that without sounding like someone's wise spinster aunt. She takes a long drink of her coffee in lieu of saying anything.

"So," Kahlan says, lively again, Cara's mention of friendship making her discard her earlier caution. The excitement makes her eyes dance, and Cara finds, regardless of whether she has good intentions or none at all, she likes it when Kahlan looks at her that way. Like something about Cara delights her. "Why did you join _Lovin' Ladies_?"

"I was, am, looking for something...different," she says, skirting as close to the truth as she's able. Maybe someday, if she knows Kahlan long enough – and there's a small part of her that thinks that isn't the worst idea in the world – they'll laugh about why they met. Definitely not today, though, so the truth stays tucked inside her mouth. "A new sort of social circle," she adds, echoing Kahlan's reason.

Kahlan's look turns teasing. "So it's all of your ex-girlfriends who are dating each other?"

Cara smiles, she can't actually help it. "Close enough."

The wheels of conversation, now sufficiently oiled by the mostly honest exchange, roll smoothly after that. Kahlan does most of the talking, but Cara prefers it that way. They stay long enough to each get another refill, and for Cara to learn that Kahlan wanted to be a veterinarian before she became a teacher, and that her younger sister actually is a big animal vet in Iowa. She discovers Kahlan has terrible – but not irrecoverable – taste in music, that she hates exercise but runs half-marathons anyway, likes to camp as long as its in a pop-up trailer, and has never hit the snooze button in her life. Cara's surprisingly interested by each new fact, and at one point even finds herself with an elbow resting on the table, chin propped on her hand, eager and leaning toward Kahlan's words.

For her part, Kahlan learns that Cara wants to open her own gym one day, visits the Porcupine Mountains every fall, and would never travel to Las Vegas solely to see Celine Dion in concert.

"But she's amazing," Kahlan protests, unable to process Cara's unwillingness.

"I'll take your word for it."

They go on like that until Kahlan looks at her watch and says with gratifying regret that she has to leave.

"I'm really glad we decided to meet today," she says, gathering her purse and getting slowly to her feet. "You're the first person I've talked to face-to-face, and I worked myself up over it completely, but this has been really nice."

Nice. It's such an innocuous word the association should be insulting. Nice doesn't hold a candle to things that are thrilling or arousing or dangerous, the kind of things Cara strives to be on any given occasion. But instead of affronted or disdainful or even apathetic, Cara is pleased.

"I'm glad, too," she says, and means it.

* * *

Denna is in the living room, watching some trashy MTV program, when Cara returns.

"So?" she says, instantly muting the television. "How was your date with Kahlan?"

"It wasn't a date." Cara kicks off her shoes and heads straight for the refrigerator. It's just after one-o'clock in the afternoon, the sun is high and bright, and the lawn chair on the deck is calling her name.

"Fine. How was your coffee non-date? Is she as pretty in person as she is in her picture?"

Cara snorts. In the decade they've known each other, she has never heard Denna refer to any woman as pretty, eschewing the bland adjective in favor of more descriptive words, most of them vulgar. It's a testament to how serious she is about Cara finding a girlfriend in both name and longevity. Frankly, Cara thinks Denna playing the role of optimistically supportive friend is a bit nauseating, and she's terrified she'll come home one night to find Denna waiting for her on the couch with two cups of hot chocolate and an invitation to sit and brush each other's hair while they talk about girls.

"She's good." Cara pulls a can of Guinness from the fridge. She has to walk through the living room to get to the deck, and on the way to the sliding door she gives a small shrug. "She seems like a nice woman. Exactly your type, actually. Very...sweet," she says, and can see Denna deflate at the words. Sweet and Cara do not mix.

"So, I take it you're not seeing her again."

"No, I think I will."

Denna straightens in surprise.

"We're going to be friends." The word still feels strange in Cara's mouth. She hasn't had many female friends since high school, and those she does have are usually women she's slept with first. This could be a refreshing change of pace. "Or we're going to try to be."

"Well, that's something." Denna gives her an encouraging nod, like she's a child learning how to ride a bike without training wheels and has managed to not completely break her face right out the gate. "A nice first step anyway."

"Besides," Cara adds, quick to temper any unrealistic expectations Denna might have, "the more I see her, the quicker I'll get these ten dates over with. Nine dates now."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself."

Cara doesn't respond to that, Denna needs no encouragement. Instead, she removes her shirt, revealing a bra that is deep red and lacy and probably not a respectable substitute for a bikini top. But she doesn't care; if the neighbors look close enough to notice, they deserve to be scandalized.

"Grab a drink," she says, "and meet me outside. You need sun. A lot of it."

**To be continued.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to those who have reviewed (I am especially looking at those who review as guests since I can't PM you personally), I appreciate the time you take to leave your thoughts. And thanks, too, for the favorites and follows. I am happy to say that none of the previous chapters needed to be tweaked this go around, so read on without fearing I've changed the game.

* * *

Cara enters her apartment a woman on a mission. Her skin is shiny with sweat, hair slick against her head, and her breathing is audible and harsh. She biked to work today, thinking there would be enough time to enjoy the sunshine and get ready for her date with Greta, but her last appointment ran long and then her front tire went flat and she didn't have a spare. She jogged the last mile and a half, and now it's less than an hour before her date and she has to shower, change, make herself presentable, and get to some corner bar on the outer edge of town.

Denna isn't home so she strips in the hallway, tossing the ball of her clothes into her bedroom as she darts past. She's in the shower before the water can get warm, swallowing a yelp when the frigid spray breaks against her skin. Eyes closed, she dips her head beneath the water and thrashes a hand about in search of the shampoo. Her hair is lathered and still being rinsed when she grabs her loofah.

This is only her second official date. It's already been three days since she met Kahlan, and she'd like to pick up the pace. Or at least make her days more productive so she can finish the punishment phase of this bet before the end of the decade. But Denna's enjoyed lording her power over Cara, being slow or just down right reluctant to approve Cara's choices. During the last three days, Cara's only sent two e-mails and made one phone call to a woman other than Greta, and those were all to Kahlan. The content of those exchanges has remained casual, with no mention of that "maybe more," and that is just fine with Cara. Not, of course, that she hasn't entertained a fantasy or two about the Kahlan – she'd have to be completely straight not to – but, she's content to leave her thoughts at just that.

Thirty-five minutes before her date, Cara turns off the shower and shoves the chaste Kahlan from her mind in favor of contemplating the more blatantly sexual Greta. It will be painful coming home alone tonight, but she is not without self-control and restraint. Especially when the lack will result in Denna having the upper hand.

Dry enough not to leave a puddle in her wake, Cara goes to her bedroom, where her lotion and the clothes she picked out the night before wait on her bed. The outfit is more suggestive than the one she wore for Kahlan, more blatant in its appeal, and she dons it with relish.

Ten minutes later she is giving herself a final look in the mirror. Her jeans are tight, her cleavage present and accounted for, her makeup flawless. She smiles at her reflection, then goes to meet Greta.

* * *

Greta is late.

Cara looks at her watch, then lets her eyes travel to the clock on the wall, the one with the small round face nestled within a set of deer antlers. It's the tenth time her gaze has made this circuit, the tenth time she blows out a sigh of irritation. She abhors tardiness, and Greta has now forced her to endure fifteen minutes of it.

After twenty minutes, Cara forces her hand into the tight back pocket of her jeans and extracts a folded slip of paper, on it are Greta's cell number and the address of the bar Greta wanted to meet at. A quick glance confirms she's in the right location, so she decides there's nothing left to do but call the woman and see what is going on. She can't believe she's been stood up, but there's a first time for everything and she'd rather not sit here another twenty minutes waiting for nothing.

She's dialing the area code when, from the corner of her eye, she notices a woman approach the table. Older, she's the frail kind of thin, and has fading brown hair that's chopped off at the chin and looks coarse. Dark jeans hang off her hip bones, and a sequined heart sparkles across the chest of her fitted black top. She smiles when she stops beside Cara, thin lips inexpertly painted a fire engine red that's smeared at one corner, making it look like her mouth is bleeding.

"Cara Mason?" Her voice is rough, no doubt coarsened by years spent bellied up to a bar – maybe this one – guzzling liquor and smoking cigarettes. It's not unpleasant though, and Cara thinks if she'd heard it over the phone she'd probably fantasize about the woman it belonged to. But right now, combined with the expectant look in squinting, blood-shot eyes, it disturbs her.

She sets her cell carefully on the table, expression wary. "That's me."

"Hi." The woman drops onto the chair across from her. She smiles and extends a hand, her nails are painted a deep purple and she has at least one ring on every finger. "I'm Greta."

Of course she is. Cara's hand rises to shake hers on reflex, but her grasp is limp with shock. She drags her eyes along the woman's face, her torso with its cheap winking heart, looking for any hint of the woman she thought she was communicating with, the one with blonde hair and gravity-defying breasts and a smile that promised no good. But she is no where to be found, and, from the looks of it, hasn't been around for a good twenty years.

Like a kid woke up on Christmas morning to discover Santa brought her all the wrong presents, Cara's disappointment is bitter. She'd had plans for that Greta, big ones, but she can't say the same about the one who shares a vague resemblance with her mother.

A waitress arrives at the table before Cara can articulate what she's feeling. When she stops it is nearly on top of Greta, one hip brushing against Greta's shoulder. "Hey Greta. Been a while." Her smile starts small and reproachful and disappears completely when she looks at Cara. She clicks her pen and lets it hover above a notepad clutched so hard it's bent nearly in two. "You ladies ready for a drink?"

"Hey, Ellen." Greta takes a cursory look at the menu, she probably has it memorized, then slides it along the table toward the waitress. "I'll have a Bud and an order of chive fries."

Ellen turns fond in an instant. "Figured that. And for you? Ma'am?" she stresses, when Cara only stares.

"Uh, I'll just have a Sprite."

"Sure thing." She flips the notepad closed, not having written anything down, and shoves it into her apron. With a final disgruntled look in Cara's direction, she says, "I'll be right back with those drinks."

"I don't believe for a second you're not hungry. You're not worried about your breath, are you?" Greta grabs her attention as the waitress, Ellen, walks away. Cara considers following her. "Don't be. You'll want your energy, and I've got a bunch of mints. I think I've even got some gum somewhere."

Cara looks at Greta, who's set a hand on her purse. "I'm always prepared," she adds, and it's obvious she's talking about more than just mints.

"That's nice," Cara says, and she thinks this may be the most speechless she has ever been in her life. She looks toward the door and honestly thinks about throwing a five on the table to cover her Sprite and walking out. Greta shouldn't need an explanation to understand her reason, but then again, Cara doesn't know much about internet dating. Maybe people routinely lie about their age and what they look like. Maybe the trick is just to get someone to agree to a date, no matter what it takes, and then take it from there. It doesn't seem a far-fetched idea.

Under normal circumstances, Cara would be halfway home already. But these are not normal circumstances; she still has nine dates to go on and she'll be damned if she walks away from this one just because it's with a middle-aged liar who, at the moment, is obviously trying to gauge whether her top is see through. She'll stay long enough to say she tried, then go home and prepare for date number three.

"So. Greta." She takes a moment, decides how she wants to play this. "You look nothing like your picture."

Greta laughs, cackles really, obviously delighted at being called out for lying. "Noticed that did you?" She winks. "It's my nephew's wife. Those pictures on my profile," she says, when Cara just stares. "They don't have internet at their place, see, so she uses my computer to meet guys online. I attached one of her pictures to a profile of mine once, on accident, you know, and let me tell you, it was a feeding frenzy. I had offers clear from California. Now I use her pictures exclusively. I think she knows, but she don't say anything. I figure it's her way of paying me back for keeping quiet about what she gets up to at my place. William doesn't know, see, about her boyfriends. William's my nephew."

Cara absorbs that. It takes some time.

"So you do this a lot?"

"What? Go on dates with women? Sure do."

"I meant lie."

Ellen reappears with a tray, and Cara thinks the fries are either raw or Ellen took them off another table's order just for Greta. It's obvious she and Greta share a past and she's taking Cara's presence badly, alternating between sending Cara dirty looks and sending Greta open invitations with her eyes. Cara wonders if this is some kind of hunting ground for Greta, or if she takes all of her marks here for sustenance. She glances around the bar, alert for other dark stares, and she doesn't know if it's just her imagination, but she counts two open glares and one questionable sneer all pointed in her direction.

A little uneasy, Cara takes a sip of her soda. It's flat and tastes like Coke and she pushes it away in distaste. "You were saying?" she says, when Ellen's out of earshot and Greta's managed to consume half her beer.

"What? Oh." Greta waves a hand, laughs again. "It's hardly a fib. Stephanie, that's my niece in-law, she's barely ten years younger than me and everybody says we could be sisters."

Cara would dispute that, but has no idea if Stephanie actually looks anything like the pictures she's seen. For all she knows, Greta's niece found them on the internet and adopted them as her own and resembles them just as badly as her aunt-in-law does.

"But everything still goes," Greta says, reassuring. "I'll do everything I said I would."

"About that -"

These fries are so good." Greta grabs a handful and tosses them into her mouth like popcorn. "Sour cream and chive, I am telling you, they're amazing. You gotta try them."

She slides the basket of fries her way, but Cara shakes her head. "I'll take your word for it."

"You don't know what you're missing."

Cara sighs. She tried, but she can't do it anymore. There are a thousand things she'd rather be doing than wasting her time, or even Greta's.

"I have a three date rule."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have a three date rule. For sex. I don't sleep with someone on the first date."

The words take a moment to register. Greta takes a long time in chewing, forehead wrinkling in consternation, groves deepening by the half second. "Your e-mails didn't say anything about no three date rule." Her eyes consider Cara's cleavage. "Neither does that shirt you're wearing."

Cara looks at her black halter top with its draped neck. Flattering, yes, but still tasteful. She narrows her eyes and levels them at Greta.

"I think you'll find, if you go back and re-read my e-mails, that I said nothing about sleeping with you tonight. I was only trying to gauge your interest in future activities."

"You mean you were being a tease."

Greta's irritation annoys, and it makes Cara less careful with her words. "I'm not a tease, I just don't spread on the first date." Which is true, she just hasn't spent any of the last five years actually dating.

The table bounces abruptly as Greta leans over it, nearly toppling Cara's soda. She peers at Cara's face, squinting like she's trying to see through a fog, and she's close enough that Cara can smell the chive fries on her breath. "Are you being serious right now?"

"Very."

Greta falls back against her chair, shrinking like a deflating balloon. "This is just great." She wipes her hands on a napkin, rings clinking together, then crumples the cheap paper and tosses it into the fry basket. It bounces out and lands in Cara's lap. "Look, my husband's at the bar, should I tell him to take me home or what?"

"You have a husband?" Cara's eyes drop to Greta's be-ringed fingers. "You brought him with you?"

"He likes it when I do other people. Sometimes they'll let him watch, sometimes he gets to join the fun." Greta shrugs, one finger scratching at the table, eyes downcast. "But apparently that's not your thing so whatever, I'll just go home."

The tiniest sliver of guilt slips beneath Cara's skin. Greta obviously has her own issues with Santa at the moment. "I really had no idea -"

Greta holds up her hands, she's already on her feet. "Like I said, whatever, no hard feelings. You're hot, but you really shouldn't lead people on like this."

Guilt shrivels. "Maybe you shouldn't let people think you're single and still in your twenties."

"Bah. Some people get snotty about it, but I've got it where it counts. People that give me a chance are always glad they did."

Greta's shoulders straighten with defiance and Cara knows she has been given a glimpse into the future. Greta is Denna in twenty-five years, there is no doubt. It's almost spooky, and even more reason make a break for the exit.

"I'm sure they're all very satisfied," Cara agrees, striving to be pleasant as she digs through her purse for enough money to cover her soda.

Greta makes a dismissive gesture, like Cara's words are cheap, and starts to walk away before thinking better of it. She returns to finish her beer, ending it in two loud gulps, and sets the empty glass hard on the table.

"I think it's only right you pay the bill," she says, "since you brought me out here under false pretenses."

"False pretenses," Cara echoes, disbelief choking her a little. When Greta holds her stare, Cara decides not to protest, just nods and lifts an acquiescing hand. She removes another two tens from her purse and when she reaches to place them atop the bill, it's to find Greta still lingering beside the table. She looks wistful.

"You got my number," she says, when she notices Cara looking at her, "so if you change your mind, you call me up." She smiles. "I'm not one to hold a grudge."

* * *

"What are you doing home so early?"

Cara tosses her keys onto the table, and they're joined by the paper with the apparently ever hopeful, hardly-a-fibbing Greta's information. She frowns at Denna, who is sprawled across the couch, a _Lifetime_ movie playing on the television behind her.

"I was rejected," she says, and collapses onto the leather recliner. She lifts her feet and pops the footrest, flings her torso back almost violently so that she is completely horizontal. She stares at the ceiling, contemplative. "And I got stuck with the bill."

"What?" Denna sounds scandalized. She struggles to sit up, trying to pull a blanket off her lap but it's tangled around her legs. She gives a few futile yanks before just letting it be. "Why?"

Cara doesn't even need to guess. "Because I'm a superficial tease."

"What?" Denna's snort is unflattering. "Since when are you a tease?"

"Since I invoked the three date rule. Since my date turned out to be a fifty year old woman with a husband." Cara shrugs, still speaking toward the ceiling. "Take your pick."

There's a digestive silence. Then, "Greta's a married, middle-aged woman?"

Cara nods. "She is."

"That's unexpected."

"Yes."

"But that's what you get," Denna continues, allotment of daily sympathy tapped out in record time. She sighs like someone whose wisdom is often ignored: aggrieved but secretly gloating. "Profiles like hers," she shakes her head, "they only want one thing, and they don't care if they have to lie to get it.

"It wasn't all lies. Besides her age and her looks and her being married, she was very truthful."

"I'm sure."

"She wanted her husband to watch," Cara continues, noticing from the corner of her eye the way Denna perks with interest before she can stop herself. "Or participate, if I agreed. I almost gave her your phone number, since that's more your thing."

"That's thoughtful of you, but I'm a little busy with Tiffany right now."

Cara ignores the lie. "I've still got her number. It's on the table, on the piece of paper next to my keys."

Denna lifts her nose in disdain. "Like I said, Tiffany. And no more changing the subject. However unfortunate this night was, I'm glad it happened. Maybe now you'll appreciate how important it is that I vet these women for you. I never thought Greta was right for you, and look what happened."

"Yeah, about that. Are you going to 'vet' any more of the women on that list I gave you, or are you waiting for me to hit menopause?"

"That doesn't sound like appreciation to me." Denna laughs at Cara's answering grunt. "Oh, stop it. I'll let you know which women I approve of by Monday night, that's only a few more days. Until then, if you stop whining long enough, you can get in another date or two with Kahlan. That would put a nice dent in your requirements. And at least you don't have to worry about her being a seventy year old man."

A scowl pinches Cara's mouth as a suspicion flickers into a recognizable shape inside her mind. Denna's scheming had morphed, her alleged brilliant idea no longer just to expose Cara to relationship-minded women in general, but to expose her to Kahlan in particular. Her apparent sloth in regard to approving dates having less to do with thoroughness and more to do with proving she knew better than Cara what she wanted.

It should sour her on Kahlan, spur her to cut off all contact on principle, just to spite Denna. But Cara finds herself less upset than she should be, regarding Denna's machinations with surprising apathy. Greta is probably to blame, her deceit making Cara overvalue the security of Kahlan, knowing what she sees is what she gets.

That and the possibility of Kahlan's friendship still appeals, and Cara does not like to deny herself.

"I'm seeing her tomorrow," she says.

It had been decided during their last telephone call, yesterday afternoon when Cara was between clients and Kahlan was just about to leave school. The invitation was extended by Kahlan, offered casually but with an undercurrent of uncertainty. A second meeting is always trickier, a truer test of whether a friendship can form or whether their first meeting was just a one-time connection between strangers; something that will turn stale if forced to exist past it's natural life-span.

"So a second date has already been scheduled?" Denna smiles, her satisfaction obvious and misplaced. "Huh. That's interesting."

"Not really. It's not like I have any other options."

Denna laughs, then kicks the blanket from her legs and stands up, stretching luxuriantly and popping both shoulders in the process. For the first time, Cara notices Denna is dressed to go out, squeezed into a pair of dark jeans and donning a filmy red top and a black blazer with three-quarter sleeves. She bends over at the waist and lets her blonde hair fall forward in a stream, running her fingers through it.

"I'm leaving," she announces when she snaps back upright, a move that always gives Cara a heard rush when she tries to duplicate it. She smiles and tosses the remote onto Cara's lap. "I'm meeting a few friends."

"Have fun."

"I'd invite you to come with me, but I doubt you'd have much fun what with your...restrictions." She starts walking toward the front hall then pauses, propping one finger against her chin and gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling, an over-acting performer if there ever was one, relishing every moment on the stage of her own creation. "Unless you'd like to call Kahlan and ask her to meet up with us?"

Cara frowns. "It's a school night."

"So? It's a work night for me, too."

"She's not a creature of the night. Some people actually need their sleep."

"Chicken. You're just afraid she'll turn you down."

Cara _hates_ that Denna is a little bit right. It's almost enough to make her reach for her cell, but she manages to control the impulse. A push back from Kahlan tonight would set a bad tone for tomorrow, making things awkward before either of them even showed up at the bowling alley. She'd rather avoid that. "Eat shit," she says, in lieu of agreeing.

"Thanks, but no." Denna points to the television where the _Lifetime_ movie is still on mute; Valerie Bertinelli is shouting at someone, her hands clenched into fists and pressed against either side of her head. "Enjoy that one, it's one of my favorites. She's married to an old rich bastard and has an affair with a younger man, a landscape architect I think. Anyway, she's just found out he's her nephew, the product of her brother's donation to a sperm bank. She tries to break it off but she threatens to tell her hus -" Cara turns the channel so fast, presses the button so hard, her thumb aches. "Hey."

"No."

"Your loss."

"I'll learn to live with it."

Denna stays long enough to shake her head before leaving Cara alone with a fishing show. Cara sits in the recliner another half hour, bored out of her mind, then figures she might as well go to her room, hoping to fall asleep quickly in case Denna decides to bring someone home and be noisy. On her way through the kitchen she grabs a pair of ear plugs from the cupboard above the refrigerator, just to be safe. As she walks by the table, she notices the paper with Greta's number on it has disappeared. She chuckles all the way to her bedroom.

* * *

"That was a really good try."

The statement – a lie if there ever was one – arrives on a dazed murmur, delivered after Cara's seventh gutter ball, and her third in succession. When she stomps away from the lane, retreating from the ten fully upright, mocking pins, it is toward a Kahlan who is clearly vacillating between anxiousness and pity, her mouth a hybrid grimace and encouraging smile. Cara can't remember the last time she had to endure someone's pity, and it is horrifying in a way that makes her want to walk straight out the door, jump into her car, and drive home and never see Kahlan again. She won't even stop to take off her shoes.

Which is apparently a big no-no. She looks down at the green and electric yellow monstrosities on her feet, and it's hard to imagine a little bit of asphalt doing them any _more_ harm.

"It takes more skill than I thought it would." Cara settles on a plastic chair next to Kahlan, it's waving shape a direct from the seventies version of space age, complete with unpredictable lumps pressing into her in uncomfortable places.

"Well, maybe if you stopped trying to throw a hook -"

"I thought that's how a bowling ball is supposed to be thrown." Cara doesn't know much about bowling, just what she's managed to absorb watching late night ESPN while in the throes on insomnia, and, as far as she can tell, everyone throws it like that. "You throw one."

"I do, but it doesn't have to be thrown that way." Kahlan continues quickly when it's obvious Cara is getting defensive. "You're using an alley ball and those are a lot harder to hook. I mean, really, considering the ball you're using, you're doing very well."

Cara frowns, turns accusing eyes toward Kahlan's ball. It's a deep pink, darkened by whorls of black, and in looks alone far superior to the hunter-orange, gutter-seeking brick Cara's been using. That Kahlan brought it with her in a bag equipped with wheels, a bag that held two other bowling balls of the same design and, from what Cara could tell, at least one pair of bowling shows – that were color coordinated to match the bowling balls – should have warned her this night had the potential to be a lesson in humility.

Her still accusing eyes turn back on Kahlan. "I have a bad ball?"

"It's not terrible, it's just an alley – you know what, you should use one of mine." Kahlan stands up and starts toward her bag. "I should have suggested it earlier."

"No." The word erupts more forcefully than Cara intends and Kahlan looks stricken, so she adds a more reasonable, "No, thank you." She more than suspects her terrible score has far less to do with the equipment she's using than it does her own lack of skill, and she'd rather not take that crutch away and be proven correct. Especially not in front of Kahlan, who's had seven strikes and four spares and may have actually been born in a bowling alley for all Cara knows.

"You hate this don't you? It was a terrible idea." Kahlan sinks back into her seat, turned so she's facing Cara, and she is dejection personified. She isn't even looking at Cara, her eyes dropped to gaze somewhere at her own feet. "We can stop if you want."

It isn't fair, Cara thinks. Not fair at all. She is the one humiliating herself, exposing herself to the ridicule of a beautiful woman and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is not a natural at all things physical. Not to mention revealing what some would consider an unattractive inclination toward moodiness. She was prepubescent the last time she felt this much embarrassment, but somehow, the look on Kahlan's face makes her feel like a monster. Like she should be offering comfort or or apologies or something.

It takes effort, but she sounds passably sincere when she says, "I don't hate it and I don't want to leave." When Kahlan only looks skeptical, Cara nearly decides to take the chance at reprieve and rip her shoes off. But then she catches the tiniest spark of hope, visible only on a second look, and it does her in. "I just hate that I'm bad at it."

Kahlan leans toward her, and Cara wishes the lighting in this place was just a little bit brighter. "Are you sure?"

"That I hate being a bad bowler? Very sure."

Kahlan laughs for the first time since the fourth frame, when Cara nearly broke her neck slipping on the oiled lane, and it's a good sound. One that tugs at Cara's own lips and eases some of her agitation.

"So, are you a professional or something?" she says when Kahlan's laughter trails off, and the question serves the dual purpose of getting Kahlan to talk and delaying her next turn at the lane. She gestures toward Kahlan's bag. "That looks serious."

"What?" Kahlan looks back at her equipment. Her expression is shy when she turns back around. "Oh no, I'm definitely not a professional. Years ago I did some weekend tournaments and fund raisers, and I used to be in a league, but the rest of my team got too busy for the commitment and I haven't been motivated to look for another." She shrugs and Cara allows herself to notice the delicious way the movement presses her breasts together. It's just a quick glance, and if Kahlan notices she doesn't comment. "I try to practice," she continues, either oblivious or unconcerned, "but I don't like to do it alone and most of my friends think bowling alleys are disgusting and refuse to set foot in them."

Cara nods, eyes going from the green carpet so threadbare it is almost see through, to the smoke stained ceiling tiles, to the darkened fingers of her own right hand. Kahlan's friends may have a point.

"So you suckered your new friend into going with you?"

Kahlan ducks her head, cheeks turning pink and it's charming mostly because Cara's knows it's genuine, not an affected maneuver meant to further an agenda. She knows, she's used it many times herself.

"I only said you should come if you were bored," she reminds Cara. "You're the one who insisted."

Cara wishes she could deny that, if only because it turned out so badly for her. But, despite everything, including her previous desire to find a hole to disappear into, she doesn't regret her decision to come. "I did," she concedes.

"A mistake you won't make twice, I bet."

Kahlan is clearly teasing, but instead of keeping the mood light, it pricks at Cara. Makes her feel a little bit like a failure, like their time together has been a disappointment for Kahlan. And it makes her worry that Kahlan will think twice before inviting her anywhere ever again.

"I didn't say that."

"Cara, I've never seen anyone frown so much in a bowling alley."

"It's my mouth's default position."

Kahlan laughs again, louder, and, like before, it calms Cara's upset. This time Cara even smiles a little herself, until Kahlan's eyes wander to the screen that displays their scores and she not so subtly flinches. When their eyes meet again, Cara knows she is scowling and Kahlan looks apologetic. She pats Cara's knee in a bracing manner.

"Come on. Take off your shoes, we're done."

"What? Why? We have two more games left," she says, more out of surprise than protest.

"I know, but when I take someone out I like them to have a good time. If I force you to bowl another game I'm afraid you'll never want to see me again."

Cara doesn't reassure Kahlan, though the words are impatient to jump off the tip of her tongue. Instead, she bends over and obediently removes her shoes, wondering if the night is over now that bowling is a bust. She doesn't want it to be, and she debates the wisdom of inviting Kahlan out for a late meal, or maybe back to her apartment. The last option is quickly discarded. Beyond not wanting to give Kahlan the wrong idea, she has no wish to expose her to Denna. Not now, maybe not ever.

"There are a few pool tables out back," Kahlan says, her voice thankfully obliterating the mental image Cara's conjured of struggling – ineffectually - to drag a salivating Denna off Kahlan's person. "I think it's safe to assume you'll like that."

"Why do you say that?" Cara glances up, nonchalant. Kahlan's look is teasing again.

"Because of your picture. The one you posted on _Lovin' Ladies_ of you shooting pool."

"Oh." Cara fights off yet another frown, a little offended that the first time Kahlan mentions _that_ picture, it's to bring up pool and not, say, her smokey eye makeup or the flattering cut of her shirt. "Are you any good?"

"At pool? No." Kahlan plucks at Cara's shoulder. "But I figure it's my turn to try something I've never done."

"You've _never_ played?"

"I can count the number of times I've held a cue on one hand." Kahlan wiggles her fingers playfully, seemingly amused by Cara's disbelief.

"That," Cara says, getting to her feet, mind reflexively conjuring the thought of Kahlan leaning over a table, "is a shame."

"I figured you'd say that. Should we go make it right?"

"I think so."

They only play one game.

Cara tries to be both teacher and competition, but Kahlan is fairly hopeless and the only ball she manages to sink is the eight in a side pocket. By mutual agreement, they decide to move on to less lopsided pastures, opting for shuffle board. It's a much more enjoyable experience, with Kahlan taking the first two games and Cara taking the next two. Cara is digging in her pocket, scrounging for quarters to play the rubber match, when Kahlan yawns and declares her coach has turned into a pumpkin and she has to go home.

"But we're all tied up." Cara gestures to the board. "We can't leave it like this."

"I know and I'm sorry but I'm about to fall asleep standing up."

Cara thinks about protesting further, but Kahlan does look truly tired, so instead she settles for exacting a promise. "You know this means we're going to have to play again."

Which she gets. "Of course."

With another smile, Kahlan is promising to call, one hand grazing Cara's shoulder with a touch that does not linger, and saying goodnight. She doesn't offer to walk Cara to her car, parked on the other side of the building, and she doesn't prolong their goodbye or even offer a final wave as she leaves through swinging doors. It's a perfectly acceptable exit, so Cara doesn't know why she stares after her for a long moment, fighting pangs of disappointment.

Berating herself for being an idiot, Cara settles her tab and goes home. Later, tucked in bed, laptop resting on her thighs, she goes to Google and types in: bowling for beginners. She reads deep into the night, book marking videos and articles and vowing to become at least a serviceable bowler before finally turning off the computer and the lights and closing her eyes.

**To be continued.**


End file.
